


Blessed Are They

by DreamerInSilico



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cranky Cass, Easily-flustered Cass, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Mage-positive, Purple Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 20:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10395945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamerInSilico/pseuds/DreamerInSilico
Summary: Cassandra wasn't sure what she had expected, but the reality of Marian Hawke definitely wasn't it.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wyndx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wyndx/gifts).



“What was that about a ‘Corypheus expert,’ Varric?” the Inquisitor asked, drumming her fingers of one hand on the scale mail sleeve of the other.  

“Well, we lost contact.  She was making for a little village in the north of Ferelden, last we corresponded, due south of Jader.”  

Inquisitor Cadash pinched the bridge of her nose.  “There’s a rift there, isn’t there?”  

“There wasn’t, Inquisitor, but yes, my sources indicated that there was a new one as of three days ago,” Leliana confirmed.  

“Right.  Cassandra, Varric, I want you two plus Dorian ready to ride in three hours.  I don’t care how thin a lead this is; she’s got to be better than nothing.”  

And that was how Cassandra Pentaghast ended up literally scooping the Champion of Kirkwall up onto her horse from the middle of a veritable mob of demons.  

 

* * *

 

“I appreciate the literal cavalry and all, but I had it under control!” yelled the woman who was presently bleeding all over the back of her saddle.  

“I hope I never see your ‘out of control,’ then,” retorted Cassandra through clenched teeth as she wheeled her very uncomfortable charger about and pulled out of the fray with Dorian’s fire covering her retreat.  

_ The Champion of Kirkwall is behind me on my horse. _

_ The Champion of Blighted Kirkwall, who apparently has a deathwish, is behind me on my horse, complaining about being pulled out of a pack of demons. _

That low, feminine voice was ragged from exertion, but still sent an entirely unwelcome shiver down her spine when it suddenly came from much nearer to her ear.  It was all Cassandra could do not to yelp or jerk away in surprise.  “Oh, if you are who I think you are, you’ve at least seen the aftermath of me very much not having something under control.”  

The words were amused, and that was honestly what horrified Cassandra.  

“Shriek at northeast!”  The warning was bright, containing more inexplicable laughter, as the warrior cursed and skewered the thing a second and a half later.  

Had the Battle of the Gallows unhinged her?  Or had she somehow become the pillar of a city while always being this way? 

The Inquisitor eventually did get the rift closed, and they spent the evening licking their (few, mostly Hawke’s) wounds in camp on the outskirts of town - small enough that it lacked a proper inn, and the group had politely declined the offer of the major’s stable.  Their tents only smelled  _ slightly _ of lathered horse.  

Hawke’s madcap commentary extended - interspersed with colorfully creative swearing - through her injuries being cleaned and salved, from which general conversational radius Cassandra excused herself rather hastily after being casually asked if she’d read any of Varric’s books, since they seemed to know each other so well.  

Had  _ Hawke _ read them?  

Cassandra found it profoundly irritating that she cared about the answer, and even more irritating that she’d been too embarrassed to ask that at the proper opening in the conversation.  

“Not quite what you were expecting, is she, Seeker?” came the eternally-smug baritone as Varric settled down near her shoulder as she did kit maintenance later in the evening.  (Hawke had - mercifully, Cassandra told herself - fallen into a stupor and then quickly to sleep after the giddiness brought on by adrenaline and the pain of having her injuries addressed had subsided, leaving most of the Inquisition’s crew awake with something approaching normalcy.)

“One could have expected any number of things, based on what you told me, including that she be ten feet tall,” she retorted wearily, eyes on her sword and whetstone.  

“But you expected something anyway.”  

It was not in Cassandra’s nature to lie, but neither was it in her nature to humor interlocuteurs for whom bedeviling her was outright sport.  

“Yes, she is much the same height as I expected, Varric.”  

A rumbling laugh as Varric began to oil his crossbow.  “Alright, Seeker, have it your way.”  

The full truth was that Cassandra had no idea what she had, in fact, expected.  But she was quite certain that, whatever that may have been, the reality of Marian Hawke was not it. 

 

* * *

“Lady Pentaghast, my comrade in demonslaying!” Hawke’s boisterously playful voice hailed her from the bar, three nights later at the Herald’s Rest.  “Come share a round.”  

Cassandra froze in her tracks, drawing a low, musical chuckle from Leliana at her side.  “Best indulge her, Cassandra, lest you accidentally keep standing there looking terrified the rest of the night.”  

“I do  _ not _ \- “  

The second laugh was brighter, merrier.  “Of course you don’t.”

With a huff of annoyance to cover how flustered she really should not be feeling, Cassandra acquiesced, dropping down in a seat near Hawke, with the corner of the bar between them.  “Call me Cassandra, or ‘Seeker,’ if you must,” she informed the woman, attempting casualness.  “Though I really don’t think my rescuing you from a throng of demons makes us ‘comrades in demonslaying.’”

“I killed at least a half-dozen on my own before you got there, I’ll have you know,” Hawke protested, flashing her a grin as she hailed the barkeep.  “But fair enough, I suppose.  Another mug for myself, please, and one for  _ Cassandra _ , my gallant savior on horseback.”  

The so-named gallant savior tried, and, it should be said,  _ gallantly _ failed to completely avoid a blush.  She hoped fervently that the dim tavern lighting would prevent its notice - at least from those who were not Leliana, who had settled down nearby looking like the proverbial cat who ate the canary.  “That sounds like quite the story,” purred the former Left Hand.  

Cassandra would have been inclined to simply summarize the encounter in a sentence or two - it wasn’t that complicated, after all.  But Hawke immediately seized upon the chance to provide a dramaticized recounting of the sort that would have done Varric proud, complete with lavish detail of Cassandra’s exemplary horsemanship and gallantry, which of course led to the woman in question spending as much time as humanly possible hiding her face in her ale.  

The fact that it was a narrative worth of Varric Tethras should have annoyed her.  She should have rolled her eyes and tuned the Champion of Kirkwall out, as she had recently developed the self-preservatory habit of doing with Varric himself over the last few months.  (His writing was another matter, but that was her secret and it was going to remain that way.)  But instead she found a not-insignificant part of herself absolutely basking in the flattering descriptions of her actions and comportment, and feeling increasingly ridiculous about it.  

Hawke was an absurd, contrary creature, and there was no reason whatsoever for her easy grin to warm Cassandra as much as it did.  None at all.  

* * *

 

 

“The Prince means to retaliate against anyone who ever harbored Anders. Kirkwall's resistance is headed by Guard-Captain Aveline. With our help, she can break Sebastian's resolve and send him running back to Starkhaven.”  Cullen’s arms were crossed, a stormy frown on his face as he raised his eyes from the war table to the Inquisitor.  

“And so the day went down in history as the  _ second _ time I agreed with Cullen,” Hawke muttered, present on this particular war council thanks to her long-standing experience with the city.  Her words held a venom that completely caught Cassandra off-guard.  “Don’t validate his stupid vendetta.  The sad thing is, he actually believes what he’s saying; it’s not just the convenient pretext for a power grab that it blighted looks like.”  

“I’m didn’t say we should actually help him take the city; I don’t think even a reasonable contingent of ours would make that possible,” Leliana replied coolly.  “But if we seem to be offering assistance, that provides an opening - “ 

“ - and tells the rest of the world that the Inquisition supports his view of the situation!” Hawke hissed, turquoise eyes flashing with anger.  “That the Inquisition supports  _ invading and occupying an entire city _ to pursue the connections - not even the immediate person! - of one man!  Even if I thought he deserved such a vendetta - which I don’t - that is positively mad!  Get agents in the Vael court some other way, Left Hand; I’m sure it’s not beyond you.”  

Hawke’s vehemence surprised Cassandra despite the fact that Hawke was, herself, a mage.  While it was perfectly logical that she would side against an external inquest into the most publicized action of the mage rebellion, there was something about this blazing, focused anger that seemed almost at-odds with her normal demeanor on a fundamental level.  Cassandra found herself at once a little shaken and no small amount impressed by it, by the strength of the suddenly-uncovered conviction.  Not to mention the philosophical and political acumen of her answer to Leliana.  

Inquisitor Cadash was nodding thoughtfully to Hawke, then looking to Cullen with decision in her eyes.  “Make the arrangement to assist in rebuffing Starkhaven.  And Josephine, please send an appropriately-worded letter explaining our position on the matter, with emphasis on the ‘power grab’ aspect, I think.  That might not be what he’s actually focused on, but it may as well be.”  

Later, when they took dinner together, as was becoming a pleasantly frequent habit, Cassandra could tell that Hawke was still half-seething.  

“You weren’t satisfied by the Inquisitor’s response, today, about Starkhaven,” she observed carefully, making it a question and a statement.  

Hawke closed her eyes and sighed.  “No.  But it was canny and much better than it could have been.  Sometimes you take the victories that are there and don’t push your luck.  Don’t have to like it, though.”  

“You expressed that Anders didn’t deserve this vendetta.”  She kept her voice even, neutral, honest.  Trying to understand.  There was something important half-buried, here, despite Hawke generally being nearly as candid about mages and the Chantry as were Dorian and Solas, who had never been taught to fear the latter.  

Hawke looked up sharply, eyes narrowing as she clearly debated how blunt she could afford or had the energy to be.  But eventually - “He doesn’t.  Sebastian Vael saw an explosion that suddenly killed the woman he treated as something between surrogate mother and Andraste herself.  I saw my best friend desperately trying to do  _ something _ that would actually  _ change things _ after nearly a decade of trying to play nicely with the Chantry and having it go nowhere.  Seeing them abuse and murder and Tranquilize so many, just because they could, while he wrote newsletters and, you know, ran himself ragged being the only healer Darktown and most of Lowtown would ever have access to.  Seeing the Grand Cleric put her fingers in her ears and tacitly condone the abuse that just got worse and worse and worse, and try to call that ‘neutrality.’  So… yeah.  I don’t think he deserves how history wants to treat him.  And it makes me sick to think of even paying lip service to Sebastian’s fucking crusade in the name of political expediency.”  

Cassandra sat for several seconds, during which she studied her wine rather than Hawke.  But the wine held no answers she hadn’t already known, herself: “I think I understand that quite well.”  

The look of surprise, and worse, the  _ gratitude  _ in Hawke’s eyes, just then, made Cassandra inexplicably want to cry.  

 

* * *

 

“This is fascinating theory and theology and all, really, but I think we might have company,” Hawke observed in the light tone that Cassandra now understood as her most effective way of masking fear.  

“The Nightmare comes!” the Divine-shaped spirit warned with a cry, her light dwindling as the Inquisitor swore.  

“I’ve had way too much bloody Fade nonsense for a lifetime, let alone a day.”  

But the Nightmare demon didn’t seem to care much for the dwarven Inquisitor’s distaste, unsurprisingly enough.  

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,” Cassandra murmured under her breath as they engaged, steeling both sword arm and will against the monstrosity they faced.  

Spiders.  Spiders, and tendrils, and screeching horror.  

_ Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just _ .  

They fought for mere survival, never mind justice, but perhaps they could bring about the latter if they managed the former.  The fight dragged on for minutes that felt like hours, but thankfully, no one had yet gone down.  

_ Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. _

There was somehow an opening, a breather - and a rift.  A rift that could get them out.  But not with the Nightmare rearing up directly before it.  

“I’ll cover you, make a run for it!” gasped Alistair, the Grey Warden who might have become a King, had the Fifth Blight played out differently.  

“You’re about to fall over, dumbass,” Hawke retorted, eyes sweeping over the half-dozen wounds the man was bleeding from.  “And the Wardens are going to need non-brainwashed leadership.  Inquisitor, I’ve still got plenty of juice; take this idiot and I’ll cover you.”  

_ No _ .  

Cassandra’s eyes shot to Hawke in horror, sick pressure lodging in her throat as she tried to shake her head.  But that madcap, slightly-bloodied grin was as uncompromising as it was familiar.  She turned the plea of her own gaze to the Inquisitor instead, but the woman was already nodding solemnly.  It was, after all, a sensible suggestion, no matter how much it made Cassandra want to scream.  

“Alright, Hawke.  It’s been an honor.”  

Cassandra felt herself pulled into a sudden, rough embrace, Hawke’s chapped lips pressing hard into hers for a breathless, hasty instant before withdrawing.  “Get them home, Cass.”  The murmur for her ears alone.  

_ No. _

But she was a warrior, and a protector.  One who knew how to honor the sacrifices of those who chose to make them for the greater good.  Through the screaming in the back of her own mind, a distress that had never arisen in response to the presence of Nightmare, itself, she led the party through the rift, followed by Hawke’s laughter and the demon’s screeches.  

_ In their blood, the Maker’s will is written _ .  

 

* * *

 

The rest of their war against Corypheus was a time period that Cassandra would later remember very little of.  Though she had been driven before, the time after the Fade saw her filling every waking moment with action, on the practice fields if nowhere else.  The Iron Bull took to sparring with her regularly, as he was one of the few who could withstand her single-minded fury enough to pose a challenge.  

Only on the afternoon when Hawke’s quarters were tidied up, and the Inquisitor called her to a private meeting did she take several hours to herself, to weep near-silently in her private chambers over the multiple half-written letter drafts that had been discovered addressed to her.  Poetry.  Hawke had written her  _ poetry _ in those letters.  Eventually, they were tucked into a leather folio which then took up residence in her trunk, and she tried her best not to seek them out on nights when the memories were hard.  They hardly made acceptance easier.  

Months passed.  

There were doldrums and times of desperation, eventually culminating in the great triumph that the Inquisition’s leadership hadn’t entirely believed possible: Corypheus was dead, and the world was saved.  Leliana was appointed and crowned Divine Victoria, while Cassandra remained largely by the Inquisitor’s side, helping more gently restore order to a war-torn world, despite the monumental nature of that task.  

The revelation of Solas’s identity brought a new flurry of activity, with a new, slowly increasing (albeit much less violent) trickle of Fade anomalies in its wake, and troubling times returned for those who dealt in power and secrets in the world.  The reports were so many that Cassandra barely took note of most of them.  A demon here, a few “rogue spirits” there, a madwoman who’d claimed to have seen Andraste elsewhere…  nothing like the rifts, though sometimes the Inquisition did send teams to investigate the more drastic scenarios.  

When, one day, a letter arrived from the Divine explicitly requesting the investigation of a team led by  _ Cassandra _ of one such anomaly in southern Orlais, it was surprising and a bit irritating, but no large matter for alarm.  The next morning, Cassandra and a team of fairly green agents plus one veteran mage left Skyhold to answer the request.  

That night, they were to meet the sole ‘witness’ to the anomaly at a village tavern - the intelligence stated that the woman claimed to have personally fallen  _ out _ of the Fade through it, which made no sense, so Cassandra was heading into the meeting expecting to be bored, and either irritated at Leliana for wasting her time, or more likely, to find another unrelated meeting set up for her in addition as the true purpose for the trip.  

Instead, she found a tall woman with long, albeit shaggy, uneven black hair, a rogue’s grin, and the brightest pair of turquoise eyes she had ever seen, and stood stock-still in the doorway of the tavern upon spotting her, rigid with shock and a sudden, desperate attempt to stifle her absurd hope.  “And hey, what do you know, one of the few women who can directly vouch for what I said about that demon…”

The twinkle in her eye just then must have been its own sort of magic, because Cassandra didn’t register the steps either of them had to take to close the distance between them - just that all of a sudden, Hawke was warm and alive in her arms and was kissing her like they had both all the time in the world, and no time at all.  

**Author's Note:**

> File this under: "really wanted to be a longfic, but author fortunatley/unfortunately knows her limits." Hopefully the format works out well for those who read regardless.
> 
> You just know Cass spent months after Hawke "died" talking about how she had been a True Hero to anyone who'd listen, especially when she'd had a few glasses of wine.


End file.
